


The Fields of Elysium

by Fyre



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Canon Compliant, Complete, F/M, M/M, Missing Scene, Post-Finale, Wrongful Imprisonment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-13
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:18:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 13,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: A man who has been through bitter experiences and travelled far enjoys even his sufferings after a time. - The Odyssey





	1. Styx

**Author's Note:**

> And here I was thinking I would be safe once the show was over. Instead, nope. Got spammed with a dozen plot bunnies. This one took front and centre, because I'm a sucker for missing scenes and I love Thomas Hamilton like burning.

The sun was unbearably bright after the weeks of rank darkness of the ship's hold, but the scent of clean fresh air was like a balm. Thomas gulped it in until his head was spinning, for fear each breath might be his last opportunity and that one bleak windowless cell would be replaced with another.

The walls of Bethlem were far behind, but that didn't mean there wasn't something far worse waiting on this strange shore.

He had no notion where he was. His father certainly hadn't chosen to make himself plain. A seaman might have hazarded a guess, noted the length of the journey, the angle of the light and the lay of the land.

James would have known in an instant.

Rough hands steered him - still dazzled and blind - across the deck. Shackles swung heavily from his wrists, but thank God they had unchained his ankles. His steps were ungainly, days, weeks and months of inaction rendering him weak. His gaolers gripped his arms tighter to save him from falling. He understood why when a gangplank swayed alarmingly underfoot, then gave way to rough-hewn stone. 

God, he wished he could fall to his knees and enjoy the simple relief of solid ground beneath his feet, but they were pressing him onwards. Noise assailed him on all sides, shouting voices, the creak of the ships rolling on the waves, the slap of the water against the jetty.

He blinked tears from his eyes, his vision returning little by little. 

The dock was swarming with people. His eyes were drawn inexorably to a shape swinging above them. A man. Hung. He remembered another dock, another time and place.

His wardens pressed him onwards until they reached a non-descript doorway and he was pushed through it. The sudden dip into shadow left Thomas blind again, his shoes clattering on wooden floor.

When they released him, he lifted a hand to rub at his eyes.

"Leave us."

The familiar voice was almost as welcome as the fresh rush of warm air when they'd brought him above deck.

"Peter," Thomas whispered hoarsely. God above, how long had it been since he had used his voice?

The dim shape before him moved closer and all at once was Peter Ashe, smiling tentatively at him. "It's good to see you."

Thomas mutely reached out and clasped one of Peter's hands. So smooth, he noticed. Warm and smooth and unscarred. His own palms were rough, damaged things now, his nails broken, his skin cracked and dry.

A lifetime ago, they had last seen one another in a grim, reeking room, far from light and civilisation. A lifetime ago, Peter had confessed his shame in his part in Thomas's arrest. He had wept and vowed he had only spoken for the sake of his family.

Whether it was the truth or not hardly mattered.

All that mattered was that Peter had betrayed Thomas and those he loved most.

Thomas had - in that brief moment - hated him. 

It was the first time he had felt such rage and grief, but there was nowhere for it to go. If he lashed out, if he acted upon it, there would be repercussions. James and Miranda's lives were forfeit upon his good behaviour. So he nodded and lied to Peter's face as smoothly as Peter had lied to all of them about his unshakeable loyalty.

Weeks in the darkness, months in the darkness, changed all of that.

Perhaps Peter had betrayed them, but after months without, a friendly face, even a treacherous one, was better than whips and ice-water and pain.

The room they were in was warm, the windows half-shuttered. A parlour turned study it seemed. One wall was lined with books and ledgers. The scent of dust and ink hung on the air. With a pang, Thomas longed to reach for the books, to assure himself his words weren't all lost to him.

"Where are we?"

"Please. Sit down. I will explain everything." Peter guided him to a chair. It was a fine one, upholstered in deep blue leather. Thomas sank onto it, for a moment feeling quite human again, until the weight of his shackles fell across his knees.

Peter poured them both a glass of wine from a decanter. As he took the glass, Thomas wondered at the cool smoothness of it. Such a simple thing, something he had known a thousand times, yet was all the more mesmerising for its long absence.

The wine itself was sweet and heady. Thomas knew he ought to drink it with care on a stomach emptied by many days of seasickness and in a place so hot and bright. And yet, he drained the glass, sweeter and richer than anything he had tasted in months.

Peter refilled it at once.

Thomas watched him, wondering at such hospitality, especially when the hospitality was making his light head even lighter. "You said you would explain."

Peter sat down in another chair, only an arm's length from Thomas's across a small table. "You are in the Carolina colonies."

Thomas nodded slowly. The wine was a mistake. He should not have drunk it. He could feel it softening his senses already. "The colonies."

Peter was silent for several seconds. "Your father and I," he said carefully, "have come to an arrangement."

The brief relief and joy evaporated like morning mist. "My father," Thomas echoed. No, no freedom was to be had here. 

Peter had the grace to look uncomfortable. "You know he would not allow you to be freed, Thomas. Not with all that he knows of your... indiscretions."

Thomas set aside the glass on the table between them and folded his hands the one over the other. His shackles bit painfully into his wrists, but he ignored them, fixing his eyes on Peter's face. "I see."

Peter stared at him, then looked away. "I have found a place for you. A place where you can live out your life in peace. It's... it would be a safe place for you."

"I see."

Peter smoothed his handkerchief between his fingers. "Thomas..."

Thomas continued to gaze at him, wondering once more at his father's part in Peter's betrayal. Which of them had approached the other, he wondered now. "You might free me," he murmured.

Peter flinched as if Thomas had struck him open-handed. "That's impossible."

"Why?" Thomas waited until Peter met his gaze. "We are far from England. Who would know?"

"Your father..."

"My father," Thomas echoed again quietly. "It astonishes me how easily you bend for him."

Peter opened his mouth to reply, but the door opened. 

"Governor, your carriage is prepared."

Peter's face flamed with colour and he didn't meet Thomas's eyes.

"Governor Ashe." Pieces fitted neatly into place.

"Thomas, it isn't what you think."

"I think it is." He watched Peter intently. "You think I will willingly walk into another cage bought and paid for with a title and station?"

Peter was silent for several moments. "I know where they are."

The threat hung on the air.

It was likely a lie. Peter had proven himself a traitor and a liar time and again. But then, what if it wasn't? His father had dangled the noose over James's head before. He would not have let such a useful bargaining chip be lost.

"Thomas," Peter began again, pleading, soothing. "I brought you here to protect you from his wrath. From Bethlem. This- it's a safer place for you. A better place. I had no intention- I was not- I did not mean to..." He trailed off uselessly. "The Governorship was not my price."

Thomas closed his hands more tightly one around the other. He wanted to lash out, but he was weighed down by chains, exhausted and half-starved, drained to the point of no resistance. They had guns and chains and enough leverage to drive him into another walled prison. 

All he had left were his words.

"And yet, you still took your thirty pieces of silver." He rose on shaking legs. The wine was making his head swim. "And we go to this... safe place now?"

"Thomas..."

Thomas shook his head slowly. "You have nothing more you can say to me."


	2. Phlegethon

Peter was not wrong about Thomas's new prison.

In comparison to Bethlem, it was a paradise on earth. 

There were walls to contain them, it was true, but the doors were not locked for days at a time. There were windows in the long barrack rooms, small enough to keep out the worst of the heat of the day, but large enough to allow light to flood the rooms. 

They were fed and watered and in exchange, they were expected to tend the fields and attend the services of Mr. Oglethorpe, the placid gentleman who considered the plantation as not so much a prison but a sanctuary for those whom society disapproved of.

If a man behaved well enough, sometimes he was even granted permission to visit the small library that Oglethorpe kept. It was a modest collection, but Thomas never expected to feel such joy as he leafed pages between his fingers.

It was not a restful place, but that was of no mind to Thomas.

The first days were difficult, his bruised and weakened body collapsing from the exertion and the heat. There were no beatings for him in this place. Instead, he was tended by a quiet woman, who treated him kindly, fed him broth and smiled like a satisfied mother when he managed to rise from his bed.

By and by, it became easier. The blisters on his palms hardened into calluses. His feet no longer ached and bled from many hours of duties. The weakness in his limbs was replaced with growing strength. He could match any man who worked the fields alongside him,

Many of them, he learned, were inclined the same way as he was. This place was a private little secret where all the controversial sons of the wealthy could be safely tucked away and forgotten about. A handful were angry, but many were content enough. Some had even found kinship - even love - with the ones who were imprisoned with them.

It had shocked Thomas when he had realised it. 

Some weeks after his arrival, in the still of the night, he discovered that it was far from a mere exercise in companionship. 

It was so quiet and still and the only sound was the chirp of the crickets beyond the walls. The silence meant that the breathless urgent sounds from a bed only a few paces from his own had been unmistakeable.

In the slivers of moonlight slanting through the windows, he picked out the outline of the two men, rutting urgently. One had his hand over the other's mouth and at first Thomas had remembered Bethlem and the wardens who took their pleasures where they wished. He wanted to cry out, to help the unfortunate man, but his heart was like a stone and he could scarcely breathe, let alone move.

Then the men broke apart and Thomas watched them kiss one another, before the top-most man rose and silently returned to another bed, further down the room.

His partner must have seen Thomas staring, for he put his finger to his lips and smiled, then lay back down in the shadows.

Thomas had not slept that night, too shocked and bewildered to rest, but also haunted by the memory of the man whom such affections had ruined. God above, he missed James. James would have laughed at him with his rough hands and his tangled mat of a beard. Miranda too. Christ, what would they make of him now?

Little by little, he grew accustomed to it.

He no longer looked when he heard sounds in the night. When a wiry, dark-eyed man called Edward approached him, smiling, in the fields, he understood what the man wanted.

Companionship was a blessing in a place like this, but what had been taken from Thomas was irreplaceable. Friendship he was happy to give, but when Edward offered more and murmured of sharing the night, Thomas retreated. 

That night was the first time he wept.

Days slipped by, the monotony of labour broken only by the peace of Sundays, their day of rest. On days like that, his brethren slipped away with friends or lovers to find some private place, as much as it was possible with the guards and wardens. Thomas sought out Mr. Oglethorpe and his library. 

It ached, to be sitting with a book and to wonder what James or Miranda would make of it, yet he knew he could not stop. It was all he had left of them: the memory of all they had shared. Every book he read, he mulled on their views. Miranda would always be pragmatic, but his Lieutenant...

Oh, James would surprise them both with the glimmer of romance in his soul that he showed to none but them.

Sometimes, he spoke with the master of the house.

Oglethorpe was a decent man, Godly and benevolent. He - like Thomas - wanted to believe there was a place in the world for kindness and goodness. This man had achieved something to that end in this halfway house that was both prison and refuge. As Peter had once said, it was a safe place.

Somehow, knowing the intent behind his sprawling cage made it easier for Thomas to bear.

Days turned to weeks, weeks to months. The seasons came and went, the summers far hotter than England with winters to match. The years had long since become irrelevant. Ever since Bethlem, they had been lost to Thomas and now, he found he no longer wanted to know how long he had been alone.

It was some time in perhaps his second or third summer that he was called to the house by the master.

For once, Mr. Oglethorpe was not alone in his parlour. An armed guard stood close by the doors and another man rose from a chair and turned as Thomas entered the room.

Thomas paused on the threshold. 

"Peter."

For a man who had been living through the Carolina summers for some time, Peter looked like he was still unaccustomed to it. His brow was beaded with sweat, the collar of his shirt soaked with it. He wet his lips, looking increasingly uncomfortable.

Then again, Thomas thought, perhaps it wasn't the summer heat at all.

"Thomas. You look... well." He glanced at Oglethorpe. "If you would mind giving us the room."

Oglethorpe nodded and glanced at Thomas with something akin to sympathy before withdrawing. The guard withdrew too, but he, Thomas noted, lingered outside the door.

Peter remained standing, but motioned to one of the cushioned chairs. "Please, sit down, Thomas."

Thomas gazed at him, then obliged. It was a hot day. A respite, no matter how unpleasant the cause, was always welcome. The leather creaked beneath him and he leaned back, raising his eyes to Peter.

Peter moved to sit back down, then seemed to think better of it. He walked across the room towards the window, glancing out into the fields through the slatted shutters, squinting against the sun. "You work with those men out there now?"

Thomas raised his eyebrows. "I don't think you've come all this way to discuss my menial labour."

Peter turned back. He was pale now, and still sweating. "Your father. I have some news about your father."

Thomas said nothing.

"He- he was meant to visit the colonies."

 _Was_ , Thomas thought.

"The ship was set upon by pirates. Your father... he was killed."

Thomas gazed at him. He should, he supposed, be saddened, but he felt nothing. How was he meant to care for the man who had taken everything but his life from him? He had lost his home, his loves, his family, his whole world because of his father's ire. It was not easy to grieve for a man like that.

"Did you hear me, Thomas?"

"I heard." Thomas's heart was pounding. "My father is dead. That means you no longer need to bow to his whims." He pushed himself up from the chair. "Now, you can tell me where James and Miranda are."

If Peter was pale before, he went ash-grey now. 

Thomas stared at him. "what is it?"

Peter shook his head. "I can't tell you that."

It felt like the world had come to a standstill. Thomas could hear a fly buzzing against the mesh curtains, could see the bobbing futile speck of black against the white cloth.

"You... can't?"

Peter shook his head again. "They were trying to reach Nassau, but..."

Nassau.

Their ambition and their great failure.

"Trying..." Thomas felt like a great fist was squeezing his heart. "When was this?"

"When they left London." Peter said through taut lips. "When you were taken."

Long before Thomas was dragged out of his dank cell in Bethlem. Long before he reached the Carolina colonies. Long before Peter had coerced him into another prison with the promise of their well-being.

"What happened to them?" Thomas felt a thousand miles away from his own body.

Peter shook his head.

Thomas took a step towards him, snarling, "Tell me!"

"Pirates. We think they- the pirates were running wild-" 

Peter's words cut off abruptly and Thomas was belatedly surprised to realise it was because his fingers were tightening around Peter's throat. He wasn't weak any longer. All those hours in the field granted a strength he had never had in London. It was so easy to tighten his grip, to lift Peter to his eye-level and hold him there, dancing helplessly on his toes.

"You killed them." Thomas was amazed how calm his voice was when the best parts of his world had fallen away far beyond his reach. "You and my father. You killed them."

"Th-Thomas!" Peter was clawing at Thomas's hands, but his hands were still soft and smooth. The hands of a man who had lived easily and well, paid for with the blood of the best people Thomas had ever known.

When Peter kicked out, Thomas didn't feel the blows. He barely heard the crash as one of the stools was knocked over. He didn't care about the blood dragged free on the backs of his wrists.

Too late, he heard the footsteps and felt the blow to the back of his head. It took another blow to force him to his knees, his hands wrenched away from Peter's throat by the guard.

Oglethorpe was back, helping Peter to a chair, staring in horror at Thomas.

Thomas could feel the blood trickling from his head down his neck. His world was fading at the edges, but he fixed his eyes on Peter. "You killed them," he whispered as he swayed in his wardens' grasp. "And one day, it will come back on you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Yes Peter is a lying liar who lies)


	3. Acheron

The days that followed Peter’s visit were unclear.

For close to a week, Thomas lay in the infirmary, far longer than he needed to. The blow to his head had knocked him senseless, but that was not the reason he lay on his belly on the bed and stared blindly at a knot in the grain of the wall. 

People came and went and muffled murmurs washed over him.

James and Miranda were…

If Peter was to believed, then they were both…

More than once, his eyes filled and overflowed, and yet he could not find the strength to move to brush the tears away. 

Nassau. They were going to Nassau. James - it could only be James - wished to fulfil their plans. He went and where he went, Miranda went also. And in doing so, they had both…

_The pirate issue of New Providence island is a thorny one._

He closed his eyes against the pain.

If only he had never been assigned the task of resolving the issue. No. No, never that. For if he had never been assigned the task, then he would never have met the brave Lieutenant McGraw. He would never have discovered how deeply love could twist into a man’s blood and make him risk everything. And give everything.

All for nothing now, if Peter was right.

On the seventh day, he rose from the bed before dawn, when the morning was still cool enough to be bearable. The fields were quiet, the stillness only broken by the whisper of the wind and the brief shrill of the earliest birds.

Thomas walked as one blind, through the dew-heavy grass, towards the master’s house. He tried the door, but it was locked, so he sat there, on the steps, and watched the sun creep up over the horizon.

The lower curve of the orb was barely cresting the horizon when he heard the click of the lock behind him. The door creaked softly on its hinges and bare feet walked across the porch towards him.

“You’re up early, Thomas.”

Thomas nodded, watching the wavering light above the trees. It was going to be another hot day. “I was hoping I might borrow your Bible from the library.” His voice was so close to trembling and he fought desperately to keep it even. 

Mr. Oglethorpe was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry for your loss. Your father-”

“My father was a cruel, merciless man,” Thomas replied. “My…” To say it aloud, to give voice to such a dreadful thought made it feel much more real. It was true, though. Peter had been too afraid to lie. “The people I loved. They are gone.”

The press of the man’s hand to his shoulder was too much like kindness. He bowed his head, crushing his eyes closed for fear that if he started to weep again, he would never stop.

For what felt like an eternity, they remained there.

“Come with me,” Oglethorpe finally said, gentle. 

Thomas rose obediently and followed the man as he returned into the house. Oglethorpe was barefoot without his stockings, and his shirt was scarcely tucked into his breeches. He must have barely risen from his bed, no doubt warned by a servant that one of their prisoners was lingering by the doors. 

Oglethorpe led him to one of the small parlours, where a table was laid with fine china cups and saucers. There was a small basket of fresh bread and from the patter of feet in the halls beyond, the servants were rushing to bring the rest of their master’s demands.

“I don’t understand,” Thomas said, staring down at it. It all seemed from another world.

“Sit with me,” Oglethorpe murmured. “Please.”

Thomas complied, watching mutely as the servants brought out bowls of fresh butter and honey for the bread and a teapot. Mr. Oglethorpe waved them away, then poured the tea himself, filling their cups generously.

“You always seemed so quiet,” Oglethorpe murmured as he nudged Thomas’s cup towards him. “It was something of a shock to see you attack the Lord Governor.”

Thomas nodded, hesitantly reaching for the cup. In his work-callused hand, it looked far too delicate and fragile. “He-” The words caught in his throat and he looked across the table at Oglethorpe. “You were there. You heard me?”

Oglethorpe nodded in turn. “I heard. You believe him to be accountable for your loss?”

Thomas stared down into his teacup. “I know him to be. He confessed it himself. He is the one who put me here and damned them.”

“Ah.”

Thomas rested the cup against his fingertips. “Ah,” he echoed.

“Then I am sorry thrice over.”

Thomas glanced at him. “Thrice?”

Oglethorpe inclined his head. “For the loss of your father, however much or little it pains you. For the faithlessness of a friend. And for those whom you loved. I cannot imagine how much it must grieve you.”

Thomas had to look away, his eyes burning unbearably. “A great deal,” he whispered. “It grieves me a great deal.”

Mercifully, Oglethorpe did not offer further platitudes. He must have seen that to do so could well shatter Thomas entirely. Instead, he occupied himself spreading butter and honey on a thick slice of bread, which he set on a plate decorated with delicately painted roses. That plate, he slid towards Thomas.

Thomas could only nod gratefully, setting down the teacup and picking up the bread. 

They weren't fed badly in the barracks, but by comparison, the food provided for the master of the house was so much better. The bread was so fresh it was still warm and the sweetness of the honey was almost too much.

By the time he had finished the bread and drunk all the tea, he felt a little better.

Oglethorpe was sipping his own tea, watching Thomas carefully. "I know you had hoped to depart our company," he finally said, picking his words with caution. "I'm afraid that that would be impossible. Even if I had the consent of the Governor to release you..." He hesitated. "Where would you go?"

Home.

Home was the simple answer, but home was a place that no longer existed.

Miranda and James were no more. Without them, London was an unspeakable choice. His family would not have him back, even if his father was gone. If he even ventured that far, it was not unlikely that he would find himself behind the walls of Bethlem again. An easy way to disinherit an heir and keep him from being troublesome.

He could forge a new life for himself, he supposed. A literate man could be useful wherever he went.

The matter was...

The matter was he had no choice about freedom, even if he tried to flee. He had heard tales of would-be escapees. Beyond the walls, there was a wilderness. A man would need particular skills to survive in such a place, to return to civilisation. 

A civilisation that cast him out and shunned him.

Oglethorpe was still watching him with care as if reading his every thought. "I have a proposition for you, Thomas."

"A proposition?"

Oglethorpe nodded. "I know you did not wish nor intend to be incarcerated here. I know you had grand visions for improving the world." He set down his teacup. "We have but a small world here, but surely changing a little is better than changing nothing at all."

For the first time since the doors of Bethlem closed on him, Thomas felt a stir of curiosity.

"What do you have in mind?"

"Something better than simply lolling in the fields when the work is done," Oglethorpe said eagerly. "These are good men. Clever men. Many of them were left to stagnate, so much so that they have lost the inclination to think beyond what they have been told to do. This is not meant to be a place of dull wits and ignorance."

Thomas's heart fluttered. "Education?"

"If you would be willing to help me. So many of them see me only as gaoler, but you... you are one of them and of all of them, you have spent time in my library and spoken with me of the ways of the world." Oglethorpe smiled. "I think together, we can make this place a haven not simply for their bodies, but also for their minds."

Thomas sank back in the chair.

It was not much, it was true, but better to bring a little change to the world than none at all. After all, a single pebble could start a landslide. In this place, he could speak and be heard without fear of the repercussions that might come. The legacies of James and Miranda might not be forgotten by all but him. 

"Yes."


	4. Cocytus

Seasons changed. The world turned.

Thomas had never truly dealt with loss before, certainly not such a devastating one. The void left by James's death, by Miranda's, was so cruel he thought he would never recover, but little by little, the sharp edges eased. Nightmares slowly faded. Fond memories smoothed away the hollow despair until only the love and the quiet grief remained.

He had a place now, as unhappy as his arrival had been.

When the work of the day was done, he and his fellows would speak as he had once spoken in his salons. Often, he would read a chapter of a book from Oglethorpe's library with them and they would discuss it until darkness fell. There was familiarity in it and comfort.

And yet, sometimes when he looked at the faces around him, there was still an unexpected twist of the knife: ruddy hair by lamplight, creases around eyes the colour of a sea, a sharp, cheerful laugh, a firm hand at his back.

He had taken no lover.

It was not for want of offers. Edward was only the first, but when Thomas had deigned to accept a kiss once, the strangeness of it was too much. It wasn't James and it would never be James. No matter how meaningless the arrangement could have been, somehow it felt like sullying the truth and beauty of what they'd shared.

Lust could be managed, if one had the will and Thomas had that in abundance.

His memories were already growing hazy. James's features were no longer as sharp. He saw glimpses of them in other men, but could no longer be sure where James started and they began. It plumbed a new depth of grief he had not yet known, which brought the knowledge that one day, he might only hold the shadow of a memory of his lover's face.

And so, he went untouched, even as his shoulders grew firmer and his stamina increased. Even when his gold hair started to turn silver and his charmed features - as Miranda had so often called them - became lined with time.

It was known about the plantation that he was often taken into Mr. Oglethorpe's counsel. Other wards of the plantation often came to him, that he might raise matters with the master of the estate. Sometimes, it was a simple issue such as the food ration. Sometimes, it was more personal. They trusted his discretion and he made certain never to betray that trust. He had experienced it too often himself to know the value of loyalty.

For his part, Mr. Oglethorpe seemed to trust Thomas as much as Thomas's compatriots did. 

Once a week, time permitting, Thomas was invited to the main house where he would discuss matters of the prisoners and the plantation. 

When that topic was spent, Mr. Oglethorpe sometimes - rarely - let slip a little of the news of the outside world. He had occasion to travel from time to time and spoke of his journeys. He spoke of people he met, places he saw: Port Royal, Havana, Philadelphia. Once or twice, he even mentioned Nassau, which was so distant now that it almost seemed like a name Thomas had heard in a dream.

The pirates, it seemed, were still holding the island. None had tamed them.

Thomas was disappointed, but unsurprised. An iron fist had failed, when a velvet glove might have done the job. He tried to put the thoughts aside of the place that had killed the people he loved best. It was not his world to concern himself with anymore, not the island nor the pirates who inhabited it.

He was proven wrong late in a heavy heat of summer.

There had been a heavy rain storm overnight, so he was ankle-deep in thick mud, dragging weeds from the canes, when the gates opened. A modest carriage rattled along the long road towards the house and he straightened up to watch it.

Two figures stepped down, both female, and Oglethorpe hurried down from the house to greet them.

Occasionally, Mr. Oglethorpe left the estate, but it was rare for him to play host, particularly to at least one young woman, particularly one who - judging by her attire - had to be well-ranked.

A family matter, he supposed.

It was several days before he discovered the identity of their guest.

The first time they crossed paths, he was in the library, giving The Iliad and L’Allegro consideration when the door opened behind him. He heard a sharp, feminine gasp and turned, surprised. Oglethorpe's wife and daughter were lettered, but tended to avoid the library after the afternoon bells, lest one of the prisoners be there.

The woman standing there was the younger of the two from the carriage. Barely sixteen, he thought. She was unusually pale too, with deep shadows under her eyes. It was the look of someone who had not slept well for some time.

"Your pardon, sir." She ducked her head. "I thought no one would be here."

Thomas smiled. It had been a long time since anyone had offered such courtesy beyond Mr. Oglethorpe. "I was only choosing a book. The room is yours."

She looked up at him, searching him. "Thank you."

There was something familiar about those eyes, though he could not place them. He put her from his mind, imagining it would be the last time they would speak. Once more, he was wrong.

Only the next day, he was at work in the fields when he heard the rustle of skirts and looked up to see the young woman walking along the edge of the field.

She was watching him, he noticed. In another land, when walls were high and peepholes allowed strangers to stare and laugh, he might have minded it. In this place, she was only looking. He set down his shovel and offered her a bow of his head.

"Good morning, miss."

"Sir." She twisted her hands together watching him. "I didn't realise you were a prisoner here."

He laughed quietly. "Because of the books?"

She had the grace to flush and nodded. "Your pardon."

"It's a common assumption." He braced his hand on the handle of his shovel. "Mr. Oglethorpe gave you leave to wander, I see?"

She looked back at the house, then smiled, careful and brittle. "He said I am safe here. Safer than I would be in many other places."

Implication hung heavily on those words and Thomas remembered her sleepless pallor.

"He's right," Thomas assured her as gently as he could. "This is a safe place. Few people even know of it's existence. You and your companion are safe." Her eyes brightened, welling with tears and God above, Thomas could never bear to see a woman weep. He moved a step closer but was unsurprised when she retreated warily. "I meant you no harm," he murmured, holding up his empty hand. "Are you all right?"

She shook her head, the tears coming thick and fast. 

When he moved closer this time, she didn't recoil. He offered her his hand and she clutched it desperately, as if he was her anchor to the world.

Some questions did not need to be asked. Thomas could recognise the pain and grief etched on her face. She sobbed as if her heart would break and when he put an arm around her trembling shoulders, she leaned into him at once. 

Only when her tears were spent did she stiffen, as if she had just noticed who was holding her.

Thomas stepped back at once, but she didn't relinquish her hold on his hand. 

"Thank you."

"You were upset," he said, gently squeezing her fingers. "What manner of man would I be if I was not moved?"

She looked up at him, so very small. Far smaller than Miranda. "And yet, you're a prisoner?"

Thomas gazed at her. "Just so."

She withdrew her hand from his, and dabbed at her face with a handkerchief. "My father once told me those who were imprisoned had earned it," she said, her tone almost conversational, if not for the tremor. "Did you?"

Thomas smiled ruefully. "That would depend on whom you asked." He bent and picked up his shovel. "I don't believe I did, but there are others who would think I did. It's all a matter of perspective." 

She nodded as if he had answered much more plainly. 

If she intended to say anything further, it was cut off by a cry from the back door of the house. The other woman, the older one, was rushing towards them as if she might play a belated chaperone.

The young woman smiled unsteadily. "I ought to return. Thank you, sir."

"Thomas," Thomas said. "My name is Thomas."

"Thomas," she echoed. "Thank you, Thomas."

That evening, he was unexpectedly summoned from the barracks by one of Oglethorpe’s houseboys. The night was still warm, crickets buzzing in the brush, as Thomas followed the man back to the house. He was shown to Oglethorpe’s study at once.

Oglethorpe was standing by the window, coils of smoke curling from his pipe. “Thomas. I expect you know what I have called you here.”

Thomas hesitated. “I suspect it might have to do with your young guest.”

Oglethorpe nodded, turning to face him. He looked unusually troubled. “Her caretaker was concerned that you were taking advantage of the girl.”

“She was weeping,” Thomas murmured. “Distressed. Would the woman have had me stand there like a rock and do nothing?”

Oglethorpe winced. “It might have been proper,” he said tactfully, “not to be seen embracing an unwed young woman, especially one so recently orphaned.”

Thomas approached one of the chairs, sitting down without waiting for leave. “I see.”

Oglethorpe sat down in his own chair on the far side of his desk. “I must admit I am surprised at such benevolence.”

Thomas frowned. “Why so? I have no reason to be cruel to a unhappy child?”

Oglethorpe’s brow furrowed. “Despite her father?”

“I don’t know her father,” Thomas said, frowning and shaking his head. “I have never met her before, that I can recall.”

“Ah.” If anything, Oglethorpe’s discomfort became more visibly pronounced. He fidgeted with his pipe. “No matter, then.”

“Why?” Thomas stared at him. “Who is her father?”

Oglethorpe was silent for several minutes, twisting his pipe between his fingers. He was mulling on his words. Thomas could tell demanding and pressing for them would likely stifle them entirely, so he waited, clasping his own hands together.

“Her father,” Oglethorpe finally said quietly, “was the late Governor of the Carolina Colonies.”

It felt as if the world swayed beneath Thomas’s feet. “Peter?”

Oglethorpe nodded minutely.

Christ above, how long had it been since his incarceration, then? If that girl, that near-woman, was Peter’s daughter, it had to be close upon a decade since he had seen the her. She had hidden behind her mother’s skirts, but had been lured out by Miranda with the temptation of a pretty necklace. So small then, and only a little larger now, but…

Her eyes.

That was where he knew her eyes from. Peter’s wife, Martha, had those same eyes.

Slowly, the rest of Oglethorpe’s words sank in. 

“The late Governor?” he echoed. “Peter is dead?”

Another minute nod. “Murdered.” He hesitated only a moment too long, then quietly added, “It is said they were pirates from Nassau. All the news coming from Savannah says that Charlestown is still burning. They do not expect to be able to save it.”

Thomas sank back in his chair, shaken. 

Nassau, once again, but the chaos much closer now.

According to Oglethorpe’s maps, Charlestown was only a few days journey from Savannah, which was itself a few days journey from the plantation.

And Peter…

If the pardon provision had been approved all those many long years ago, if the pirates had been subdued with mercy instead of provoked, then he might yet live. Miranda and James too. It was strange the way the world turned.

Thomas looked down at his hands. 

Part of him wanted to delight in Peter’s fall, a fulfilment of Thomas’s own belief that justice would find him in the end. No one would have judged him for revelling in the suffering of the man who had caused so much pain and misery.

And yet…

And yet, once, in those happy days, Peter had been their friend. He had laughed with them and ate with them and shared ideas and plans. Maybe once he had believed as much as they had. Even after everything, those memories were the ones that rose now. 

His eyes burned and he put his hand to them. 

He heard Oglethorpe’s chair scrape on the floor and nearing footsteps. A broad, warm hand pressed to his shoulder as it had months, years before. “Even for him?”

Thomas had no words to reply. He only bowed his head, his breath shivering against his hand.


	5. Lethe

Abigail.

That was the girl's name.

It was strange how fragments of memory returned, little moments that had seemed so inconsequential at the time. Miranda had adored the child, dandling her on her knee and calling her poppet, while Thomas entertained her parents.

When the little girl had fallen asleep, her fingers tangled in Miranda's pearl necklace, rather than disturb the child, Miranda unclasped it and let her parents reclaim their daughter, the string of gems still gripped tightly in her soft little pink fingers.

A happier time, before Martha passed, taking the child's newborn brother with her. Before some of Peter's joy was forgotten. Only some two dozen months before - if Peter spoke true - his child was forfeit for his compliance.

Once, they were great friends. 

Once.

Thomas had not believed there was anything left to tie him to his past life, but now, with Peter's death, he realised he had been sorely mistaken. Peter was his last connection to a time when things were made of warmth, laughter and conversation. 

Even if he had turned traitor and had left Thomas to moulder in his vast cage, he was still one of the few people who would remember James and Miranda in a world that had moved on and left them all behind. 

It felt as if an old wound had split apart again, the ache of it. Not so bitter and sharp as the loss of James and Miranda, but still painful. 

Thomas only saw the girl once more on the day she left the plantation.

She was to be returned to her surviving family in England and Oglethorpe was eager to have her on her way to safety and civilisation, far from the pirates who had destroyed her home and what was left of her family.

Thomas was working with some of his fellows to clear out some of the debris from a heavy summer storm from around the house when she and her chaperone emerged into the daylight. The woman was bustling about, watching their luggage being loaded onto the carriage, but the girl was still pale and quiet.

A dozen paces from her, Thomas could see the deep smudges under her eyes. She probably had not been sleeping. No small wonder. He glanced about him, then crouched and gathered together a small handful of wildflowers, slicing the stems with his sickle and using a length of twine to hold them together. They were hardly anything, but a little brightness never hurt.

When he approached, her chaperone squawked her indignation, but Thomas ignored her and kept his eyes on the girl, Peter's child. He held out the small cluster of flowers and saw a tremulous flicker around her lips.

"It will get easier," he said gently as she took the flowers. "Believe me."

She looked up at him and held the flowers close in her small pink hands. "Thank you."

Her chaperone shot him a warning look as she took the girl by the elbow and steered her back towards the carriage. Abigail glanced back at him and for a moment, he saw the Peter of his youth, his oldest friend, smiling back at him.

He had no idea how long he stood there, watching until the carriage was well-beyond the gates. His compatriots might have called out to him, but he barely noticed and it was only when a hand touched his arm that he tore his gaze away.

Oglethorpe was standing by his side. "A very bright young lady, that one," he murmured. "She may be grieving now, but she will recover."

Thomas nodded.

Oglethorpe held up a folded piece of paper. "She asked me to give you this, once she was gone."

Thomas took it, surprised. "Why?"

Oglethorpe shook his head. "That is your business and hers." He patted Thomas's arm again. "You might take a little time. I think your friends can manage well enough for the time being."

Thomas turned the folded paper over between his fingers.

A letter. Such a simple thing. How strange that it made his heart jump in his chest.

"Thank you," he murmured. "I think I shall."

The barracks were deserted. Without the throng of people who ate and talked there each evening, it seemed much larger. Thomas made his way down the room to his small cot, sitting down on it and gazing at the letter.

Ten years, maybe more, since anyone had written anything to him. How different from the time before, when letters flew hourly between his colleagues, his friends, his peers and his supporters. 

There was a small smudge of blood-red wax on the back, not stamped nor mark with a seal. It was barely enough to hold it closed and it snapped under the pressure of Thomas's nail.

The folds of the paper were crisp and sharp, the writing trailing across the page black and delicate. Abigail had a beautiful hand, he thought, tracing his fingertips along the letters. At least one thing could be said for the betrayal and incarceration: it paid for a fine education.

He took a brief breath, then read the letter.

_Dear Thomas,  
I wished to thank you for your consideration. It is difficult to put into words what it is to be pitied and treated like some fragile thing. You offered kindness without pity, the first I had received in many days.  
I know you are a prisoner here, though I can scarcely believe it. I know that anyone might be a prisoner, be they good or bad. I cannot imagine that it is ever an amiable situation. A man might be forgiven for becoming cruel and hard and yet, you were still kind.   
Mr. Oglethorpe will not speak of the cause for your imprisonment, but even without that knowledge, I do not believe you earned it.  
Your grateful friend,  
Abigail Ashe.  
_

Thomas's hands were trembling and he pressed his eyes shut against the emotion. It was astonishing how mighty a few scratches of ink on a page could be. Abigail could not know who he was. Oglethorpe protected his flock too well to let slip Thomas’s name. She had only seen a man who was kind to her and offered what kindness she could in turn.

When he looked at the letter again, the words were blurred, his vision clouded, and he folded the page up, one fold, two, lest his tears smudge the ink.

She was a good and clever girl, Peter’s daughter. To speak alone to a man she knew to be a criminal spoke of her spirit. To listen to his words and what went unsaid and extract his meaning spoke of her wit. To write an unnecessary letter of absolution and sympathy showed her heart.

God above, Miranda would have loved her.

He tucked the carefully folded piece of paper into the small ledge between the wall and the bed, a safe space for the few small and private treasures he had collected since his arrival: a wooden flute whittled by one of his companions, a small mother-of-pearl cross on a beaded string given by an elder of their number on his death bed, a thin pamphlet of poetry. To many, they would seem like nothing, but to Thomas, each held a value far higher than gold.

As he gazed at them, all he had in the world, it came to mind that all those responsible for his captivity were gone. His father and Peter would no longer put their heel to Oglethorpe’s neck to hold Thomas where he was. If there ever was a time to seek freedom, it was now.

And yet, with those paltry objects before him, now he felt no desire to leave.

The world had moved on in his absence. His ideas had been dismissed and quashed outside the walls that housed him. He was a stranger in a strange land with no friends and no allies to be mindful and aid him if he walked through those gates once more.

He had friends here now. He had companionship and his classes and more security than he might find if he dared to walk abroad once more. Here, he could guarantee the betterment of those who came, frightened, angry and lost. Here, he could provide friendship and comfort and all the things which had been so cruelly stripped from him. 

He brushed his fingertips along the letter.

The world belonged to the new generation now and for their sake, he hoped it would be better.


	6. Asphodel Meadows

On the plantation, there was routine.

Very little changed, save for the arrival of new residents.

Perhaps that was why Thomas noticed the increased traffic from the world beyond the walls. It was not obvious at first, not if one was not watching for it, but Thomas always watched and listened to ensure that all was going as smoothly as it could.

When Thomas had first arrived, it was surprising if there was even one messenger per week.

Now, in the wake of the burning of Charlestown, sometimes they even had one every other day. Updates, Thomas expected. Mr. Oglethorpe had made a solemn oath to protect those in his care and even if a plantation might have had little value to pirates, he was still being cautious.

If so many messages were necessary, Thomas could only imagine what horrors might be happening beyond the walls.

For the first time in many months, he was curious.

He seldom asked Mr. Oglethorpe questions of the world outside, knowing that Mr. Oglethorpe much preferred to shelter them from the worst of it. This was their sanctuary after all. And yet with every messenger, Thomas felt a little more like his old self, intrigued by what was happening and what might be done.

He took the opportunity to raise the matter with Oglethorpe one evening, as they took tea on the porch and talked over the matters of the plantation. When business was done and they were sitting in companionable silence, but for the chirp of the evening insects and the distant cries of the birds, Thomas glanced sidelong at him.

"There have been many more messengers lately."

Oglethorpe nodded, humming noncommittally. 

Not enthusiastically, Thomas observed, but not silencing him either. He pressed again, more gently, "Are we in danger here?"

That made Oglethorpe turn, startled. "Lord, no." He managed a quick smile that was barely convincing. "No, but I deemed it wiser to be aware of the situation beyond these walls, lest that does become the case."

"Even after Charlestown?"

Oglethorpe frowned. He withdrew his pipe from his belt and thumbed some leaf into it. All his concentration was focussed on the act, until he could inhale a curl of pungent smoke. He blew it out again with a sigh. "Even after Charlestown." He considered the bell of the pipe and the glowing leaf. "Why do you ask?"

Thomas could not be sure, only that he wanted to know. Perhaps it was the brief presence of Miss Ashe, reminding him that beyond the walls, there was still potential in a world that had turned its back on him. "Only curiosity." He smiled wryly. "I know I will never leave this place, but I can never forget there was a world I once fought for beyond these walls."

Oglethorpe was silent for a long while, puffing on his pipe. When he looked back at Thomas, there was something strange in his expression. "They say," he finally said, "that there is a new Governor in Nassau."

Thomas was suddenly acutely aware of the stillness of the evening. "A Governor? What of the pirates?"

There was another interminable silence. "Pardons have been granted to as many as will accept them."

Pardons. For as many as would accept them.

"Dear God," he whispered. 

He remembered the arguments. The Lords shouting him down. His father's face scarlet with rage. His friends turning from him. Whispers of coward in the corridors of power. Ridicule from those he had believed forward-thinking men.

And the night it had all ended, when he was dragged from his home. His relationship with James was nothing but a tool his father had used, a weapon to crush his vision for what Nassau could become and prevent a single pardon from being issued. All of them punished for what Thomas knew to be right. 

So many people dead: James, Miranda, Peter, his own father and all those who had fallen to the pirates in the intervening years.

And now...

Oglethorpe was watching him with concern. "I did not know if you would wish to know," he admitted quietly. "Knowing the hardship you have suffered on account of those very plans."

Thomas looked away, shaken. "Did it work?" he asked, barely more than a whisper.

"Excuse me?"

"The pardons?" He looked at Oglethorpe. "Did they _work_?"

Oglethorpe hesitated. "They seem to be, for the most part."

Thomas closed his eyes, sinking back in the seat. "Dear God..." he whispered again. 

"There are still some outliers," Oglethorpe added. "Those who prefer their... violent ends. Such men are far more difficult to save."

Thomas could recall James’s return from Nassau all too well, bearing news of Thompson’s departure and the brutal murder of his family. Such mindless violence in the name of money and power had seemed such a distant concept then. Now, with the scars of shackles on his wrists and ankles and the faded marks of the lash on his back, he understood better.

Even so-called civilised people had shown themselves capable of such things in the name of prosperity and position.

But surely… surely, the pardons could only be beneficial to the pirates? What cause could they have to shy against them? They were being offered clemency and mercy, the removal of a sentence that would have dogged them all their days.

It spoke of a rage and a desire for destruction for no good reason.

Thomas?” Oglethorpe spoke gently.

“Who would refuse a pardon?” Thomas asked, shaking his head. “They are being offered freedom without any great cost. Why not take it? Who would not take the opportunity to return to a life if it was offered?”

Oglethorpe sighed. “These are not men like you and I, Thomas. These are cruel and hard men. They are led by the one who burned Charlestown. That is not a man I imagine can be saved.”

“Flint,” Thomas murmured.

The name had slipped once or twice into Oglethorpe’s tales in days gone by, with a flurry of others: Vane, Teach, Rackham, Hornigold. Flint was the name synonymous with Charlestown, when he had escaped his trial and laid waste to the city. 

By all accounts, he sounded like a formidable captain, followed by a loyal crew, merciless and nigh unbeatable in battle.

Given James’s history and skill, Thomas had often wondered what would have happened if he had faced Flint in combat. The Admiralty had lavished praise on James’s discipline and skill before they had turned on him. If all had been right and fair, he would have ended an Admiral himself, commander of legions.

Surely a man like that could easily have bested the pirate captain.

“What of the Governor?” he asked, recalling so many conversations so long ago about the nature and fallibility of man. “Do you know anything of him?”

Oglethorpe considered his pipe. “He comes from a sea-faring family, a reasonably well-to-do one from the sounds of things. He’s quite famous in London, on account of a voyage around the world. I thought I might learn more if I read his book, but he seems quite opaque.”

“His book?”

Oglethorpe actually smiled. “Ah. I should have known you would be curious about that.” He rose. “Wait a moment.”

Thomas was grateful for a moment alone to gather himself. How was he meant to react when all that he’d wished for had come to pass? He had planned for a stable Nassau. He had requested the pardon provisions. He had even offered suggestions for a suitable governor. 

And yet, for all the joy he knew he should feel at the success of his ideas, there was the twist under his ribs, the knowledge that so many lives could have been saved if they had only _listened_ when he asked it of them, all those years ago.

He ran a hand over his face.

It was good news.

He had to accept it for what it was and try not to think of the losses that had paved the way. 

The door creaked and he lowered his hand, casting his eyes up to Oglethorpe. 

“I trust you’ll find it an interesting read,” Oglethorpe said, holding out the book to him. “I know it will not ease the burden of knowing what came before, but at least you’ll know what manner of man stands there now.”

“Thank you.” The leather binding was brand new, smooth against his fingers. “And thank you for telling me.”

Oglethorpe smiled sadly. “Of all the people who should know what was happening, you deserved it the most.”

Thomas wished he could smile in return. Instead, all he could do was make his goodnights and withdraw, clasping the new Governor’s book to his chest. It felt terribly heavy for something so small, the weight of his expectations all bourn on the shoulders of this stranger.

“I thought we were continuing with _Tamburlaine_ ,” Michael, another of his companions, said as he walked into the barracks.

Thomas looked at him in confusion. “We are.”

Michael nodded to the book in his arms. “Something new for you, then?”

Thomas nodded, glancing towards the centre of the room where the rest of his fellows were finishing with their supper. “If you will excuse me this evening, Mr. Oglethorpe allowed me a brief time with this volume.”

Nicodemus, one of the longest residents and most educated of their company, chuckled. “We cannot keep you from an unread book. We are no monsters, after all.” He waved a hand airily. “Somehow, we will continue without your wit and wisdom.”

The man next to him knocked him with an elbow, grinning. “God help us, but we’ll just have to get by with you.”

Nicodemus gave him a lofty look, but Thomas knew there was no malice behind it. The pair had been lovers for a number of years and often sniped playfully where others might give or take offence. 

He left them prodding one another with their words and went to his own bed, settling back against the wall with the book. About him, the chatter and noise of the barracks seemed to fade away to nothing as he sank himself into the text.

When the bells chimed for the night time curfew, he was well into the body of the text and already gathering the shape of the man. Only the shape, though. There was much surface, but a dearth of substance. 

In many respects, the book was filled with details: about the manner of the journey, the weather, the crew, the food. However, the more Thomas read, the more spaces he noticed where things were left unsaid and actions seemed only a vague sketch. It was very proper, very polite, a very tidy story that would offend no one’s sensibilities.

It was a book made to sell and to sell well. 

As the lanterns were snuffed one by one, Thomas lay down and gazed up into the dark.

The book gave away very little of the man. Brave, certainly. Daring and reckless in some accounts, yes. Willing to fight and resolute when it came to a chosen mission. All useful and beneficial traits when it came to dealing with Nassau.

The unspoken matters were the ones tugging at Thomas’s mind. No man was utterly without fault or vice and given the chance, no man would advertise their failings to the world.

Thomas closed his eyes, breathing deeply to calm himself and settle his whirling thoughts. It was not his place to be concerned any longer. 

He could only pray that James’s cynicism of the nature of mankind was unfounded and that whatever the new Governor’s vices or faults were, they were not enough to lead him down the same path as Thompson and begin the cycle anew.


	7. Orpheus

Nassau had fallen into chaos once more.

It was difficult to pinpoint a single cause. It was like finding a single pebble that had been the cause of a landslide: impossible. One struck another, struck another, struck another and all at once, the whole world was moving and unstoppable. 

The pirates, naturally, were a great part of it. They had led a revolt against the Governor’s rule and it seemed they had garnered unexpected support from a number of communities of escaped slaves. They had reclaimed Nassau and the Governor had fled. 

No one foresaw what came next.

The Spanish invasion.

It was not mere luck nor chance. 

It was led at the hands of Governor Rogers himself. Not content with treason and betraying the crown, he had not brought them to reclaim Nassau. Nassau had burned at his whim. Only the flight of the pirates had prevented it from being destroyed entirely. 

That was when Thomas stopped asking Oglethorpe for news.

Like the seasons on the plantation, so it seemed the fate of Nassau was trapped in an unbreakable cycle of violence and destruction. Pirates or corrupt governors or the Spanish, there was no respite to be had. 

Oglethorpe was already drawn and worried about it all.

There had been visitors to the plantation once or twice in the recent months, scattered amongst the messengers and trade wagons. It was rare for anyone to visit the plantation for leisure. Thomas had watched them come and go, rough, hardy men who walked with a familiar rolling gait. Seamen, he suspected.

With all the matters of piracy creeping closer, to say nothing of the fresh Spanish incursions and the Governor’s treachery, it was no small wonder that Oglethorpe was anxiously looking to the sea. The borders of Spanish Florida were already a risk but with all that was going in, Thomas would not have blamed the man for retreating north to escape the potential threat.

If Oglethorpe noticed Thomas’s interest in the world beyond waning, he said nothing of it.

Instead, their conversations once more turned to the plantation, the crops, new seeds they might be able to try at the turn of the season, arrangements for new barracks to accommodate their growing numbers.

Sometimes, a cluster would be delivered, fresh from a ship from England. Once or twice, individuals had been brought south from the northern colonies. The barracks were already filled with hardly an arm’s width of space between the narrow cots.

“It might be wise,” Oglethorpe agreed, tapping the bowl of his pipe on the edge of the table. “We do not know when more may be added to our number.”

“If you wish, I can speak to Simeon about it,” Thomas offered. Simeon had once worked as an architect, long before he was caught in bed with a young man of low birth and dismissed in disgrace. “He has often said he could provide a better design, though I’m sure he was more accustomed to working in stone rather than wood.”

Oglethorpe nodded with a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes, that sounds like it would suffice.”

“Simpler than writing to Savannah and summoning someone,” Thomas murmured, watching the other man. He hesitated, then carefully asked, “Is everything all right, sir? You seem very distracted.”

Oglethorpe considered his pipe, frowning. “It’s nothing you need concern yourself with.” He shook his head once. “Only some business that came unexpectedly upon me in recent weeks.”

Despite himself, Thomas asked, “The sailors?”

Oglethorpe looked at him sharply. “You spoke with them?”

Thomas shook his head. “I only saw them as they arrived and departed,” he said, then smiled crookedly. “There’s something very particular about the way they carry themselves. Too much time on the waves and too little on the land, I’d wager.”

Oglethorpe almost laughed, his expression easing. “I always forget how much attention you pay.” He chuckled and shook his head. “People would say I ought to work you harder and keep you occupied, but I doubt there’s enough work in the world to distract you.”

Thomas inclined his head, taking the shared of compliment and criticism in good grace. “I only hope the business isn’t something too terrible.”

A flicker of an expression crossed Oglethorpe’s face, but he shook his head. “They only wished to make some inquiries about a vexing matter. Now, I only need to wait and see what comes of it, if anything.”

Thomas left it at that. If Oglethorpe wished him to know more, he would tell him.

He returned his attention to the matters at hand and spoke with Simeon at length. The discussion of new barracks passed up and down the room. Suggestions were made, ideas tossed about as to improvements that could be added, and within a couple of weeks, Simeon had sketched up plans that would not have looked out of place in any firm in London.

It was no vast building, only a mirror of the barracks as they currently existed, with some slight adjustments to allow for better ventilation in summer and warmth in winter. 

Oglethorpe was delighted and Thomas could not help but share the pleasure in knowing that his little world was self-sufficient, capable of educating, building, growing and making their own little civilisation. 

The plans were agreed upon and the work units moved about so those with any skill in carpentry and building might be put to work. There were teams to cut and prepare the wood, teams to prepare the ground and lay foundations. 

Thomas had hoped to be a part of it, but John, one of the carpenters in their number, had tried to teach Thomas the art once. It had been an embarrassing failure. While they went about their tasks, he reluctantly returned to the fields. That manner of labour was the extent of his manual skill. 

Little by little, over a few days and weeks, the new barracks started to take shape. 

Each night, Thomas would go to the site and take in the new developments. It always struck him as awe-inspiring how simple lines on a page could suddenly become solid and tangible before his eyes. The foundations were set, the support beams for the walls jutting from the ground like fingers reaching up through the earth.

How wonderful it would be, he thought as he walked the length of the new barracks, framed on all sides by the ribs of the building, to build something and know you had made it of your own two hands.

“You will have a place in them,” Oglethorpe told him. “After all, it was your suggestion that led to the building.”

Thomas had been touched and the emotion that rose him shocked him. He had tried so long and hard to make a better world and now, in some small part, he had done it here. The new barracks were evidence of that. He had changed things, even if just for a small number of people, who looked to him with respect and gratitude.

It was only much later that he realised Oglethorpe’s true motives for both the new barracks and placing him as one of the first occupants.

The day the change came was like any other.

The sun was rising high and hot. The fields were being prepared for the sowing, which meant tilling and turning the soil and breaking the clusters of weeds out with a hoe. It was simple work, back-breaking and exhausting, but satisfying when it was done.

Thomas had worked the length of the field thrice when the gates opened and he saw a group of people enter on the far side of the big house.

Sailors again, he thought, squinting against the sunlight. 

It seemed something had come of Oglethorpe’s business after all.

Still, it was of no mind to him and he turned his attention back to the task at hand. 

There was a breeze in the trees, stirring up the heavy heat of the day. His shirt clung to his back and shoulders, damp with sweat, as he worked the length of the field again, starting at the cane beds and returning downwards towards the barracks.

He heard Oglethorpe’s voice somewhere behind him, which gave him pause. Mr. Oglethorpe seldom came out onto the fields in the heat of the day, which meant that either he wished to speak to someone or there was a new arrival.

Thomas rolled his shoulders as he straightened up. New arrivals often came from dark and bleak places. It was rarely easy to convince them that they were somewhere better and safer than they had been before. 

When he turned, Oglethorpe was there with two of his men, removing a shackle from the wrist of a…

Thomas felt as if his heart had stopped in his chest.

Eyes the colour of the sea.

The familiar ruddy beard.

That expression…

It felt as if the world had dropped away and he was standing on the edge of a precipice, about to fall. The sun. It had to be the sun. He had been out too long and was seeing things that were impossible.

But the impossible was walking towards him. Broader now, hair cropped to stubble, faltering and unsteady. Sea legs. Sailor. Seaman. _Lieutenant_. 

Alive.

James.

James was alive.

James was alive and here and God above.

He couldn’t say which of them moved first, but they moved and they fell into one another’s arms and Christ, Thomas almost wept with the joy of it. James held him tightly, almost too tightly, but only as if he thought Thomas might be ripped away. For that, Thomas could never blame him. Thomas buried his face in his throat, inhaling the scent of him.

James’s hair was short against his fingers as Thomas drew back and cradled his head, drinking him in, and uncaring of any eyes that might be on, kissing him, embracing him and holding him, because he was _alive_ and nothing else mattered.


	8. Elysium

James was utterly spent.

What strength he had left, they used to reach the quiet dimness of the new barracks. Despite the bulk he had gained, he was leaning into Thomas, weak and helpless as a child as Thomas led him towards his own bed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice rasping and heavy with tears. “Thomas… if I’d known…”

Thomas guided him to sit down, then sat down beside him. “I know.” He wrapped his arm around James’s shoulders, drawing closer and nuzzled at his temple. “I know. If I had known too. Peter told me you were both dead.”

James was trembling, tears streaking down his face. “Peter.” His voice cracked. “ _Fucking_ Peter.” As if he had plucked the question from Thomas’s own mind, James looked at him. “His man killed Miranda.”

Thomas flinched as if he had been struck. “He said pirates.”

“He was a lying shit.” James’s arm tightened around Thomas’s waist. “He sold you, us, killed her.” He leaned into Thomas, seeking comfort, and Thomas wrapped his other arm around him too. “Christ, Thomas, the things I’ve done…” 

“It’s not important.”

James laughed sharply. “You don’t know that.” His voice was barely comprehensible. “I- we wanted- Nassau was meant to be what you wanted. I tried- we tried.” He was shivering and despite the warmth of the day, he seemed so cold. “He killed Miranda, so I killed him. I burned Charlestown. I wanted- it-”

He trailed off, but Thomas scarcely noticed.

Charlestown.

The name synonymous with that place.

“Flint,” Thomas breathed.

James all but recoiled from him, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes. He was breathing too hard now, shaking his head from side to side, his expression a rictus of grief. “I never want- it was never meant-” He choked off a sob. “Fuck…”

For a long and unbearable moment, Thomas felt like he was looking at a stranger.

James must have felt it too, for he turned away, crimson and ashamed.

But it wasn’t that simple.

It couldn’t be that simple.

No man could change that much. No man who _had_ changed that much would weep as James did now.

“Why?”

Bloodshot blue-green eyes looked at him and the grief and guilt there was heart-stopping.

“I wanted to make the world you died for a reality. Nassau. Self-governing. Peaceful,” James confessed in a stricken whisper, “then Miranda died and it all-” He slumped forward over his knees, burying his face in his hands. There was everything and nothing left of the Naval man he had been. “I was the monster,” he whispered. “The one they had told people of, tried and condemned before I even acted.”

Thomas hesitated, then reached out and laid his hand between James’s shoulders.

“I’m sorry,” James whispered, over and over, until it should have become meaningless, but instead became a litany, a prayer for forgiveness, for mercy, for understanding. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry…”

Thomas’s eyes were burning. He moved closer and took James in his arms again. “I love you,” he whispered. “Whatever you became, whatever you have done, that’s the past now. I love _you_.”

He felt the moment James shattered in his embrace, sobbing.

It may have last minutes. It could have been hours. He didn’t know nor did he care, only holding James as he wept. James had no strength left, not even to hold himself upright, folding down over his own legs, then over Thomas’s as Thomas drew him close and held him fast.

When the shudders eased and James was breathing more easily again, Thomas stroked his hand the length of James’s back.

“You should rest,” he murmured. “You’ve come a long way.”

James didn’t resist, letting Thomas steer him to lie down on the narrow cot. When Thomas stood to give him room to draw up his legs, James reached out in a panic, grasping at his wrist, the sudden dread all over his face like a blow.

Thomas knew the reason why at once and shifted his hand to take James’s. “I’m not going anywhere.”

James tried to smile, but he was stretched too thin, exhausted to breaking point. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Thomas squeezed his fingers. “You won’t be rid of me so easily this time,” he murmured, sitting down on the edge of the bed again. He lifted James’s fingers to his lips and kissed the bruised, scarred knuckles. “I’m afraid you may be stuck with me.”

“Good.” It was barely a breath as James’s eyes fell closed.

In less than three heartbeats, he was asleep.

Thomas remained where he was, cradling James’s hand between his own. James. Captain Flint. One in the same person. It was a horrifying revelation and yet, no one would imagine Captain Flint capable of such remorse and grief and misery. The Captain was a tyrant and a monster, but James was only a man who had lost everything but his life.

Thomas remembered how easy it had been to wrap his fingers around Peter Ashe’s throat and almost choke the life from him. He was a passive man and it had been so easy. For James who was raised in the Navy and surrounded by war and destruction on all sides…

Grief could make a man do terrible and monstrous things.

Even in sleep, James’s brow was deeply lined as if he was in pain.

Thomas lifted one hand, brushing his fingertips as if he could smooth away the years and the grief. James stirred, his lashes fluttering.

“Go back to sleep,” Thomas murmured, drawing the back of his fingers down James’s cheek. “It’s all right. You’re safe here.”

It came as no surprise that James didn’t sleep easily. He cried out, though he never woke, and only Thomas’s hand to his cheek and his name called softly seemed to calm him. How long had he struggled alone, Thomas wondered. Did he have anyone to soothe his nightmares? Did anyone even know he was wracked by them?

He was still sitting there as the sun crept down the wall and the hinges of the door creaked.

Instead of the usual clamour of noise of his brothers returning from the fields, there was a single set of footsteps. A shoe with a heel. Oglethorpe. 

Thomas didn’t turn, nor look up at him. “Your business,” he said softly. “This was your business with the sailors?”

“It was.” Oglethorpe pressed his hand to Thomas’s shoulder. “I wanted to tell you, but to give you false hope…” He squeezed Thomas’s shoulder. “I hope you’ll forgive me.”

Thomas stroked the back of James’s hand. “There’s nothing to forgive.” He looked up at Oglethorpe. “You have saved him.”

Oglethorpe’s smile was a tremulous thing. “No, Thomas,” he said. “I rather think that was you. They wanted to know if you were here. Your name was enough to pacify him. Your name is the reason for peace in Nassau now.”

Thomas looked back to James with his furrowed brow and deep lines cutting around his eyes and mouth. For Nassau and Thomas’s memory, Flint had been born. James had sunk himself into a world he had despised out of love. And now, after everything they had suffered and everything James had lost, Nassau had peace only because James had loved Thomas enough to put aside his rage and grief.

Thomas’s heart was tight in his chest and he lifted James’s hand to his lips again.

“The room is yours tonight,” Oglethorpe continued quietly. “I’ve asked that your brethren keep to the old barracks.” He patted Thomas’s shoulder again. “I’ll have food sent for you. Take some time. Rest.”

“Thank you.” Thomas’s voice broke.

Oglethorpe made a soft dismissive sound then retreated.

As soon as the door was closed, Thomas drew the next bed closer, close enough that he could lie down alongside James, all but covering his lover with his own body. At once, he felt the way James’s body relaxed against his.

It felt right, as if nothing had changed.

Many things had, but at the heart of it, some things were the same.

One thing was and remained true.

“My truest love,” Thomas whispered, unable to resist the urge to lean down and kiss James’s lips.

It was scarce a whisper of contact, but James’s eyes fluttered open, dark and clouded with sleep. When he smiled, it was if all those years had been brushed away.


End file.
